Читать книгу Riccardo's Secret Child - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 8

‘HE SEEMS like a nice man, considering.’

‘Considering?’ Julia finished plaiting Nicola’s hair and tugged both ends so that the child swung around to look at her. Her eyes were almond-shaped and probably not quite as onyx-black as her father’s, but the thick lashes were the same. Nice man?

‘Who seems like a nice man?’

Julia and her mother exchanged a look. ‘Just someone who’s going to be coming around in a little while, honey.’

‘Oh. Can I watch cartoons on TV before tea?’

‘Not at the moment. In a while, maybe.’

‘Considering…’ her mother hissed, doing something comical with her eyebrows that would have made Julia burst out laughing if the subject matter at hand had not been quite so grim.

‘What’s for tea, Aunty Jules?’

‘Chicken.’

‘I hate chicken. Do I have to eat it?’ Nicola stuck her hands in the pockets of her dungarees and made a face.

‘Chicken nuggets.’

‘I do wish…’ her mother began and Julia flashed her a warning glare. ‘Well…and he’s very handsome.’

Julia, who had spent the day in a state of muted dread, almost found herself wishing that the doorbell would ring. She had been down this conversational route with her mother countless times before, daily, it seemed to her, since Caroline and Martin were no longer around to provide a buffer, and she wasn’t about to go down it again.

‘Not interested,’ Julia hissed, edging her mother away from curious infantile ears. Amazing, she had discovered, what they managed to pick up when you could swear that their concentration was focused firmly on something else. ‘I’m fine, Mum. I have my job. I’m perfectly happy. I certainly don’t need a man.’ And I most certainly don’t need a man like Riccardo Fabbrini, she added silently to herself.

‘But it would be nice to see you sorted out, Jules. It won’t be easy, you know…’ her mother’s eyes flitted tellingly to Nicola, who was absorbed in drawing a picture, her face a study in concentration ‘…bringing up Nicola all on your own.’

‘Mum. Please. Not now. Please? He’s going to be here any minute now.’

‘And look at you. Old jeans, checked shirt, flat shoes…’

Julia grinned. ‘You know me. Twenty-seven going on twelve. It’s a reaction to having to deal with nine-and ten-year-olds all day long.’

‘Well, darling, that’s as maybe, but…’

Fortunately, Julia was not required to hear the end of her mother’s predictable sermon on the joys of marital bliss and the sadness of an old woman’s heart when her only daughter appeared to be doing nothing about acquiring any of the said marital bliss.

She wiped her clammy hands on her jeans and slowly pulled open the front door.

Riccardo Fabbrini was every bit as daunting as she remembered. One night’s restless sleep had not managed to steel her against the reaction she instinctively felt as their eyes met and the force of his aggressive personality settled around her like a miasma.

This time he was not in a suit. Perhaps he had thought that a suit might have been a little offputting for a casual meeting with his five-year-old daughter.

His informal attire did nothing to deaden his impact, however. The cream jumper and dark green trousers only served to emphasise the striking olive tones of his colouring.

‘Is she here?’ he asked tersely and Julia nodded, standing well back as he walked into the hall, carrying in his hands two large boxes.

‘In the kitchen, with Mum.’ No preliminaries. He had come, she thought without much surprise, with his hostility firmly in place. It was stamped in the harsh coldness of his face as his black eyes had swept over her. A night’s sleep certainly had done nothing for his temper.

‘Your mother is here as well? To give you a bit of moral support, Miss Nash? What do you imagine I am going to do? Kidnap my daughter and spirit her away to foreign shores?’

‘For her sake, perhaps, you might want to maintain a semblance of courtesy.’

Riccardo nodded curtly. He had taken the day off work, had gone to Hamley’s and spent more hours than he would ever have imagined possible to spend in a toy store, looking for the perfect toy. A difficult task, considering he had not the slightest idea what five-year-old girls liked, and now here he was, already being outmanoeuvred by this chit of a woman with her bookish spectacles and neat outfit.

Overnight, his rage had quietened. But only marginally. He had, however, managed to recognise that he would have to play along with her rules for the moment. Whatever his paternal status, Julia Nash knew his child and he didn’t. It was as simple as that. The recognition, far from slaying his thirst for revenge, a revenge thwarted as his ex-wife was no longer around, only muted it slightly. The blood that ran through his veins was too grounded in passion to lightly release the past and calmly accept the future without demur.

The kitchen was warm and cosy. That was his first impression as he walked through the door behind Julia. A scene of perfect domesticity. At the kitchen table, Nicola sat with her head bowed over a piece of paper, and Jeannette Nash bustled by the kitchen counter, stirring custard in a saucepan. He felt like an intruder with his packages clutched in his hands.

Jeannette was the first to break the ice, much to Julia’s relief. She turned around and smiled, wooden spoon still in her hand.

‘Riccardo, how lovely to see you again. Nicola, darling, we have a visitor.’

Nicola looked up from what she was doing and Riccardo felt a wave of unsteadiness wash over him as he looked at the little girl at the table, her dark hair braided away from her face, her dark brown eyes staring back at him with mild curiosity.

‘Hello…’ This was such new terrain for him, a man normally in command of any situation life had ever been able to throw at him, that he instinctively looked towards Julia, who read the awkwardness in his eyes and felt her heart soften towards the powerful, aggressive man now hovering uncertainly in front of his daughter.

‘Nicola,’ she said quietly, ‘why don’t you show Riccardo what you’re drawing? He loves art and he’s never seen what a talented five-year-old girl can do.’ Loves art indeed, she thought wryly. Although, he did, didn’t he? The memory struggled out from the dim recesses of her brain, the memory of Caroline telling her that that was one of the first things that attracted her to him. They had met at an art show and he had been deeply and genuinely interested in the pieces, had been able to talk at length and knowledgeably about paintings. She had misread his interest for an insight into a sensitive nature. Time, she had said more than once, had put paid to that illusion.